


The Knight and the Oak Tree

by lurkdusoleil



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Fantasy, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkdusoleil/pseuds/lurkdusoleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You once said that I'm your white knight</i><br/>And I said that you must be my oak tree<br/>So here in the dark, dark night<br/>Tell me that you'll always love me -Snapshots (chapter 13) by borogroves</p>
<p>The fairy tale take on the origin of the song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knight and the Oak Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [borogroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/borogroves/gifts).



> So a while ago, Mimsy dropped into my ask and goes, "So you know Snapshots?" And I was like, "Yuh." And then she talked about this little ditty from the story, The Knight and the Oak Tree, and how that was Blaine's love story for Kurt. And she wanted to know if I could see it as a real story, a fairy tale about a real knight and a real oak tree falling in love. And this is the story I came up with. 12th Century feudalistic Europe, plenty of research and plenty more artistic license taken, all the purple prose I could muster. My version of the tale of the Knight and the Oak Tree.
> 
> For darling Mimsy, an inspiration to us all. Thank you to my many pre-posting readers, you guys are all amazing.

Blood. Pain. The screams of his comrades, his _brothers_ , ringing in his ears, louder than the buzzing tone of what is surely a concussion. His armor is too tight--his lungs cannot draw enough breath. His eyes blur and blacken and their focus swims, as he continues to stumble through the trees, hacking at undergrowth with his sword, nicked and stained from the bodies of his foes.

Too many bodies. A great battle, they’d said. His lords. His masters. Glory and honor. 

What glory is there in the dimming of a good man’s eyes? Blaine could see none. 

The forest grows quiet, only his ragged breath and the pounding of his footsteps into the crinkle of brush on the woodland floor. The creak of metal and leather and chain, sputtering coughs deep from his chest, the susurration of his sword edge against vines and leaves and hedgerow. 

Forests shouldn’t be this quiet. Not in the untouched slant of land up into the hills--there should be life _everywhere_ , animals and birds--he’d come here to _escape_ death and he can’t find a single sign of life-- 

He meets the top of the rise he’d been climbing, and in his weariness and his pain, misses the root that catches on his greaves and sends him headfirst down the next decline. 

It _hurts_. He loses his sword, and luckily it doesn’t impale him as he rolls down through the more open ground of the deeper wood, the trees wider and more spread out, but covering the light in a way that the younger outreaches cannot. The world darkens and wavers as he spins down, armor digging into him on every impact, his injures screaming at him with each jolt until he comes to a rest at the bottom, luckily and unfortunately alive, his side clanging into a jagged rock that knocks the wind from him. 

He curses when he finds strength to draw enough breath, and unlatches what armor he can--gauntlet and vambraces and pauldron, and a wheezing breath to reach his greaves and tasset. His breastplate remains--the straps are too far along his back, and he aches too much to reach behind himself, though he would normally be flexible enough to at least cut the straps. Yet so he lies, breastplate still over his aching heart, his bruised ribs, the cut on his forehead stinging along with every graze he’d received on the field, and he’s certain the ankle he’d caught in the root is twisted. He slips from the leather armor padding that he can, gloves and padded breeches, until he’s left with only his tunic and doublet and mail beneath the breastplate, and his breeches and boots. 

He is vulnerable. Anything could come along and end him--but his heart remains protected, hiding, curled within him and mourning the loss of his innocence and his faith. He had been so eager the night before--bellicose and brash. No longer. 

If this is what glory feels like, he made the correct decision in abandoning the pointless battle. He’s a deserter--disgraced. But there is no bigger disgrace than what he’d believed to be the right thing only just this morning. 

The suffering he’d seen--the unnecessary slaughter, the _waste_. For what? Land and titles for men who were miles away? He could never live with himself if he continued that sham masquerading as duty. No more. Men like that do not deserve the loyalty they are granted. 

And so Sir Blaine Anderson, fresh-faced knight for his lord Duke William of McKinley, can no longer be. He might as well die in this forest--there is nothing for him beyond it. 

There seems to be nothing in it, either. Nothing but trees. 

He sits up, brushing through his hair and wincing as the cut is pulled taut--it bled well, and knocked his senses from him, and continues to make him weak and tired. But thank the almighty God that abandoned him and his brethren today--he’s been spared further severe injury, at least. Cuts and bruises, nothing more. 

How can he call himself a knight if he gives up for that? A knight no longer bound to a master, yes--but a knight he still is. He took his vows, he completed his training, and he’s now blooded his blade. He is a knight. And a knight cannot lie down beneath any foe--even his own despair. 

He rises, and heads deeper into the forest. 

\-- 

The forest remains eerily quiet. No birds, no beasts, no babbling brooks or bristling brush. 

Nothing but Blaine. 

His trepidation increases as he blunders through the wood, still clumsy and sick from his battle and subsequent desertion, and the fall to the bottom of the valley that should have risen to another hill by now. This area is all rolling mounds and trees and hunting ground--but since he made his accidental entrance into this deep wilderness, the land has been all but flat, the ground sloping very gently downward rather than slinging upward again as it should. 

Nothing is as it _should_ be. _Nothing._ Blaine cannot help the bitterness that rises like bile in his throat--perhaps all his truths have been lies all this time. He can hardly bear it. 

He’d done his duty. As the younger son, he’d been expected to bear arms as a knight for a lord, or join the Church, and he’d chosen the former. He’d lived by the tenets of chivalry, and done his best to abide by that life. He’d sooner have been a bard, but no--that is not an acceptable life for the son of an aristocrat. So he’d taken up his sword, and trained, and done his duty. 

His first mission was to protect his lord’s lands against an invading force from the neighboring territory. But he’d soon realized, on that battlefield, that both sides believed that. Both sides had been defending their lands--both sides were under the impression that they were doing their duty as protectors and valiant defenders. But they’d been merely pawns--buzzing bees droning on command, sapping life’s blood as honey, crushing flowered knights on the wrong side to feed the greedy, fattening queen. 

It’s no life for Blaine. He knows that now. But where shall he go from here? What would all the wisest men say? The lords and priests and sages and elders? Men he’d trusted; men whose morals were blunt with the hard edge of their sin, with betrayal. They would want Blaine to return to God and liege lord--return to face his _duty._

Forward, then. There’s no other direction. Especially not when every direction in this wood is exactly the same--tree after tree after tree, twisting trunks and low, sparse brush, spread wide over the dirt ground covered with the detritus of winters past. 

Blaine continues on, and the trees grow wider, their trunks dense and graceful, spinning higher and branching further with age. Majestic, mysterious beasts, untouched beneath the evening’s mist, looming and silent--watching him. 

The trees are watching him. 

Blaine immediately stops and sinks to the ground, on the edge of bawling, blithering idiot that he is. The trees are not _watching_ him, is he mad? Has he lost all his senses? If he believes nonsense like that, he’ll be burned as soon as he blathers should he ever reach civilization again. 

_Burned._ Tied to a pyre and set alight, sinner that he is. Deserter, breaker of the sacred code, and not for the first time. But for the last time, assuredly. He has committed the ultimate crime--turning his back on his word. His whole word--not the pieces that every knight battered against, breaking off pieces only to patch them later, the wall of their oath. They all--young blooded males--broke the lesser rules of their brotherhood--telling small lies, drunkenness, courting and giving in to the salacity of honorless women and men alike with no salvation or retrieval of honor intended. It was custom, whilst in training. _Get your fill now, boys, for when you receive your shield, you must lead a chivalrous and virtuous life._

Blaine had broken the most important of all--faith. He may have turned his back on his brothers, on his enemies, and on those in authority--but to turn his back on God, to abandon prudence and temperance and valor and _faith--_

He is no knight. Not anymore. He’s an oathbreaker, a disgrace. He’d known it the moment he left the field--but the truth of it sinks into him as he rests on the forest floor, weeping for all he’s lost, all that he could not blame anyone for but himself. 

And then he hears singing. 

It pauses his bereavement. He looks up and around--haunting verses of a song in a language he doesn’t know, the voice high and strong, a man’s voice. 

Blaine stands. What can this voice be? What calls him deeper into the wood? A voice like that, it must surely be an angel--terrible bringer of justice, come to punish him, surely. The voice is a fiery sword, luring him in so that it can cut him down, exacting its vengeance. 

The Angel of Death is come. For him. And he could not meet him in battle--but he can meet him now, on his own terms. He can face it. This final bravery can be his redemption. 

He follows the voice, follows and follows--no, _seeks._ He shan’t follow now--he is no longer a servant. He is a seeker, meeting his end boldly, as a knight should. But no longer as a rich man’s bull, only kept to pull his plow and sow his land--no, he will meet this as a bird, set free from its cage, flying on his own wing, no longer clipped but brushing the skies of his yearning. 

But when he meets this voice, its call surrounding him, there is none to meet him. He faces a giant oak tree in the midst of a lush clearing--nothing more. 

Is this how God wishes him to end? Beneath this mighty tree, so much stronger than he? It’s the first sign of further life in this forest--the ground is clear around it, grass growing richly green, dotted with icy blue creeping phlox and pristine snow-in-summer, even beneath the wild, tangled spread of branches not just above him but around him as he approaches, the tree ancient and majestic. So much more a lord than any human Blaine has ever followed, crowned with emerald leaves, cloaked in the green-and-pearl of sharp sprigs of mistletoe. 

There’s no one here, though. Just the tree, and the echoes of the voice that has now fallen silent. 

“No,” Blaine gasps. “No, wait!” 

Stark silence meets his words, and he kneels heavily before the tree. 

“Come back!” he shouts, tears filling his eyes. “Oh, God--Merciful God, do not abandon me further. Take me now, before I enact it upon myself. Save me from such disgrace.” 

He peers up between the branches, the final light of day dappling his face through them as the forest fades, colored crimson but quickly sliding into the cool blue of twilight. 

“Please! Guide me away from this place.” Blaine sobs, hanging his head in shame and confusion and agony. There is truly nothing left for him--he has abandoned it all, and it has turned its back on him in return. The remainder of his strength is sapping. “End my pain, Lord.” 

And there is an answer. 

Blaine holds his head low as the air crackles around him, filled with the sound of shifting leaves and cracking wood. His Lord has come for him--merciful, benevolent God-- 

“Oh beautiful boy,” says a voice, the voice of the singing and temptation that lead him to this clearing. Light and clarion, befitting an angel. 

Blaine looks up to meet him, and is met with beauty unlike that of this earth. Pale, fine skin. Eyes like every sky he’s ever seen, from clear to stormy to early to late to high noon bright and brittle and deep into the heavens. Strawberry-lipped smile, regal refinement in his features. Hair the color of the rich earth, his bare body draped in only a hanging of flowered vines and leaves about his hips--a colorful skirt, brushing just to the tops of his thighs, leaving him naked above and down to his long feet. 

He steps from the roots of the tree, and stands before Blaine with that same beatific smile, reaching out and placing a gentle hand in Blaine’s hair, caressing him sweetly as he gazes down, breath leaving his lips in a pitying sigh. 

“There are no gods in this place but I,” he says, and Blaine looks up at him, tears clearing from his eyes with a blink of his heavy lids. 

“But--but I--” 

“Sshhh,” the angel whispers. “Sleep. Rest. You are safe.” 

He presses on Blaine’s neck and shoulders, stroking, and Blaine finds himself sliding down to the ground, unable to decide for himself anymore, endlessly comfortable on the soft ground, pillowed by flowers and grass, his body easing as that voice sings a wordless lullaby, and Blaine closes his eyes and obeys. 

\-- 

Blaine wakes with fingers in his hair, his head laying in a smooth cradle. His breastplate and doublet are gone--he’s in his shirt and trousers and boots and nothing more. He feels-- _wonderful._ He opens his eyes with a hum, and looks up to find the angel smiling down at him from above and behind. 

He sits up, startled. It’s morning--the light of the sun slips bright and young through the clearing. When had this--this man, this-- _creature_ \--when had Blaine shifted into his lap? When had he undressed Blaine? And is he truly an angel? Blaine sees not a wing nor halo about him, just the leaves around his hips and thighs, and his otherwise bare and sin-tempting skin. Blaine blinks and forces himself to meet the man’s eyes rather than focusing on the flesh that he should have not a care toward. 

“Who are you?” he asks, voice tremulous and weak as the first steps of a newborn colt. 

The man smiles again, sliding to his feet in a single sinuous movement, taking delicate, natural steps through the exposed roots of the oak tree, as though his feet know their every weave and wending. 

“I had no name in the early days of my being,” he says, eyes glimmering at Blaine in the soft light that dances and flashes with motes of dust and pollen. “When the druids of the old world came, they called me Clas Ceol. They used to come and worship on the very ground you stand on. They were driven away by Germanic tribes, they who called me Conja Rad. And now you...my small, broken visitor.” 

He looks Blaine over, and Blaine flushes at the stare, which lingers on his waist and his legs--he is well aware he is not the usual size of a knight, and completed his training in spite of it, but the tense gaze embarrasses him nonetheless. He fidgets and waits for the man to finish as he appears to consider. 

“I know your people,” he finally says. “They burn and cut my forest, encroach upon my lands. None have come to visit me, and none would ask my name. But you have.” 

Blaine has no answer for him. He has no knowledge of that which he is speaking. 

The man approaches, ending his amblings among the roots, and tilts his head, meeting Blaine’s eyes. 

“You may call me Kurt.” 

“Kurt,” Blaine repeats. “I still don’t know who you are.” 

Kurt smiles again, and grabs Blaine’s hand. 

“Come,” he commands. 

Blaine obeys. What else would he do? 

Kurt guides him to the trunk of the oak. He pulls Blaine in and places his hand upon the rough bark, then placing both of his own over it as well, fingers bumping over knots and lichen and moss. 

“I am the god of this forest,” he says. “I am of this Oak Tree, brought from it by the power of belief that men once held in it when nature was sacred and your God was not yet a babe from the womb.” 

Blaine feels the frown crease his brow, and he turns to Kurt. 

“What do you mean?” he asks. “My God is the only God. It is--” 

“What someone else told you to believe, yes?” 

Blaine bristles. 

“We are taught, in the Bible, that--” 

“I am aware,” Kurt says, dismissive. “But have you ever _met_ your God? And might I ask--does your God truly love all that you are?” 

Blaine stares. How could he ever expect to meet God? Why ask that? And of course his God loves him, he is God’s creation-- 

Except. 

“You are not all that your Bible tells you to be, are you?” Kurt asks shrewdly. “I will tell you a secret, Blaine. No one is. Gods cannot define humanity. We know nothing of it. And if your God is even real, which I highly doubt--well, who is he to define your lives? As far as I’m concerned, he is misusing his power. For that is the only difference between us, Blaine--I have certain power that you lack. It is my responsibility to use it wisely.” 

Blaine cannot break eye contact between them. His eyes are the colors of the sea--blue, grey, green, a touch of golden sunlight on the horizon, colors that shift and change in the waves, all the way to the edge of the earth. 

Is that what the waterfalls look like, on the edge? When men meet their deaths from sailing too far, chasing a treasure too rich for mankind to comprehend, are they met with the colors of Kurt’s eyes as they fall? 

“I am sorry,” Kurt says suddenly, looking away. “I have long been alone here--longer than you could imagine. I do not mean to upset you.” 

“I--no,” Blaine says. “I--I simply cannot imagine one speaking as you do. The Church...the Church would _burn_ you--” 

“But do you agree with me?” Kurt asks. “Might I convince you yet that you have put your faith in the wrong place?” 

Blaine sighs and sits down. Perhaps he is in a fever-dream, or Kurt is a demon come to tempt him to Hell before he’s called to Heaven’s gates--but Blaine cannot imagine Kurt as a demon, cannot comprehend that. Even demons cannot mimic such beauty and grace, can they? 

Or perhaps he _is_ destined to suffer damnation for this. He has already disgraced himself--is this his final test? Or is he already gone, and should he simply allow what might happen, knowing he is powerless? 

“Blaine.” 

Kurt kneels before him, reaching out and cupping Blaine’s face between his palms. 

“Would that I could show you what beauty you hold,” he says softly. “Even your doubt is beautiful. You see so much further than you have been told you should. My wise knight.” 

Kurt leans in and brushes his lips against Blaine’s. Blaine is no stranger to this temptation, but he has sworn-- 

No. He has broken his oaths. Be he already damned, can he not accept this offering? 

He is tired. Fighting any small happiness would be the true blasphemy. 

But Kurt pulls away. 

“What are you feeling?” 

Blaine glances between his eyes and mouth, and it is within him to answer, _love._ In a different world, he would court Kurt and ask his hand, for he would believe God had spoken in his heart, and drawn him to this man. But God does not draw men together, in his world, nor does He allow other gods, as Kurt claims to be, to exist. 

But he allows good men to die. He allows Blaine to believe in lies all his life. He allows him harm, he allows men to take advantage of his Word-- 

_Oh._

“I am feeling like I have woken from a deep slumber,” Blaine admits, “and my eyes are clearing in the morning light.” 

Kurt smiles indulgently. 

“Your heart is true, I had no doubt,” he says, sparkling with humor. “But what of your body, weary knight?” 

Blaine looks down, and-- 

His pain is gone. He feels--he feels _wonderful_. He reaches up and touches his head, and he brushes over smooth skin and loose curls, no cut or dried blood beneath his fingers. His ribs no longer ache, and he feels--he feels-- 

“What did you do?” he asks, awe and wonder stealing his breath. 

Kurt smiles, and draws his hands back from Blaine’s face, standing and offering him a hand. 

“I would see you rested and well in my home,” Kurt says. “That is simple hospitality, is it not?” 

Blaine grins up at him--angel indeed, though nothing of the kind he’s read about and heard in sermons. He is discovering a new world, in which _Kurt_ , forest god as he claims to be, is the true angel, merciful and beautiful and loving-- 

He takes Kurt’s hand, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. His heart quickens, and his head is light--is this what he has been missing? Has he allowed himself, truly, to be led blind his whole life? Has he denied himself his true nature, his true freedom, all this time? 

“Let me show you some kindness,” Kurt says gently. “I suspect you’ve had little in your lifetime.” 

Angel of the Oak Tree. _Kurt._

\-- 

If Blaine has lost his mind, there are worse ways to be mad, surely. 

Kurt offers him sanctuary. _Sanctuary._ He offers Blaine the run of his forest, warning him that his power only reach the edges where Blaine entered--if he leaves the bowl of the valley that he entered, Kurt’s influence ends. But there is plenty of room, according to Kurt, and Blaine had seen much when he’d stumbled in. Miles of forest--not much in the grand scheme, probably no larger than a town and keep, but Blaine is the only human within. Kurt sits beneath his tree, cross-legged and serene, and tells Blaine to explore his fill, gather firewood if he wishes, hunt if he wishes--all he asks is that Blaine not interrupt nature, that he hunt honorably and take no more than what he needs, and keep his fire at bay from Kurt’s beloved trees. 

Blaine can hardly believe it. He has as safe a place as is possible to simply live, to rest his weary soul. And he has a wise, beautiful companion with which to share it, for Kurt does not retreat into his tree--he stays in the open, watching Blaine whenever he is within range. 

He stays in range purposely. There are fallen branches for firewood, and Blaine gathers some easily, enough for a night. But he’s not certain he’ll really need it--the clearing is warm through the morning and afternoon, mild and sunny with a cool breeze. The only time he leaves is to take a trip to the edge for his discarded armor--his helmet will make a fine pail for water, and he takes Kurt’s directions to a stream and fills it, drinking several handfuls of the cold, fresh water himself. It revives him, and he readily returns to the clearing and deposits his belongings, including his sword, which had lain mere yards from where he’d fallen. 

“Would you like direction to edible food?” Kurt asks, when he carefully wedges his helm, half-filled with water, into a hollow between roots of Kurt’s tree. There are slits for his eyes and mouth above that, so he cannot fill it more, but it’s enough for overnight, if he doesn’t wish to rise in the night to drink away any thirst. 

“I--I was going to set up a trap,” Blaine says. “Are there rabbits in the forest?” 

“Of course,” Kurt says. “There are rabbits, and pheasants, and I believe you may find deer wandering through when evening falls. The tribes that used to live here smoked their meats to keep--I observed, if you do not know how to do so.” 

“I know how to cure meat,” Blaine replies kindly. “We learned, in case food became scarce on the field.” 

“There may be much that you can teach _me_ , then,” Kurt says delightedly. “And yet that I may teach you.” 

Blaine feels a blush rise to his cheeks, and he laughs, rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck. 

“I believe you might,” he says, hoping to remain courteous and undemanding, but hoping that Kurt will show him… _everything._ He so obviously has far more knowledge of the world than Blaine, who has allowed wool over his eyes for the past twenty years. 

What doesn’t he know? 

When evening falls, the clearing does cool, and Blaine clears brush from a small area just beyond reach of Kurt’s tree roots for a fire. He gathers stones, and sets up a small hearth-like construct, as best he can, and builds a fire above it. It’s small, but it warms him wonderfully, and he has plenty of wood for the night. 

Kurt wanders over when he’s settled down, sitting before it, hugging his knees to his chest, a tight, warm ball that comforts him. This place has been welcoming, but it is still strange, and night worries Blaine. 

“May I sit by your fire?” Kurt asks politely. Blaine scrambles up and offers Kurt the warm spot his body had inhabited, taking his hand and helping him to sit there while Kurt smiles and giggles at his antics. “And you will sit with me?” 

Blaine immediately sits next to Kurt, at a respectful distance. 

“It’s been many years since I sat by a fire,” Kurt says, eyes dancing as he gazes at the firelight. “I had forgotten its warmth.” 

Blaine looks over Kurt, and realizes he’s still only dressed in his plant-kilt. 

“Here,” Blaine says, reaching to remove his shirt. “You must be cold--” 

Kurt stays his hand with a brief touch, and ducks his head. 

“My thanks, but I don’t require your clothing,” he says. “What is a cool night to a tree?” 

Blaine shifts where he sits, letting his shirt fall from his hands, and looks over curiously. 

“Are you--are you part of the tree? Or its...its spirit?” 

Kurt tilts his head, considering. 

“I suppose you could say that,” he says. “But it’s...complicated. Difficult to explain in words. I inhabit the tree, but it exists free from my life force--if I left it, it would survive. It has a life outside of mine. But I grew from it--and it offers me shelter and succour. At the same time, it _is_ me.” 

He glances at Blaine, shrugging. 

“I am the tree. But the tree is not me. Consider it...a symbiosis. My life would shorten and fade without it; my power would drain away. The tree would age and stand, for its longevity is far removed from that of lesser creatures. It is why I endure--I would be little more than a human myself if I left. So I am of the tree, it is part of me, and I a part of it. I remain because together, we are whole. I would be less of myself elsewhere.” 

Blaine hardly understands, but he nods anyway. Kurt seems sure--he needn’t be himself. All he needs to know is that Kurt came from the tree, and he doesn’t want Kurt to return to it just yet. His company is spellbinding. 

“You--you aren’t like the dryads of the tales,” Blaine notes. 

Kurt narrows his eyes at him. 

“I believe dryads are the closest you could come to what I am, but are dryads not women?” 

Blaine flushes in shame. Of course--Kurt is clearly male. 

“I did not mean to offend--” 

“Oh, you do not offend,” Kurt says with surprise. Then, he smirks and ducks his eyes again, peeking up at Blaine through pale lashes. “I simply wish you to know without doubt that I am, indeed, male.” 

Forbidden heat floods Blaine’s body at the look, and the way Kurt’s skin seems to glow in the light of the flames, and how _close_ he is, mere inches away now, and he’s moving closer, tilting and relaxing onto his hip, one strong arm holding himself up, brushing Blaine’s arm as he half-reclines, still looking up at Blaine wantingly. 

But it’s not forbidden anymore. Blaine is bound to no rules but that of Kurt’s hospitality, and Kurt kissed him earlier that very day-- 

“You do not desire women, do you?” Kurt asks simply. No judgement, no disgust. And Blaine feels his heart stutter in his chest, a sharper rhythm. There is something-- _exhilarating_ in acknowledging this, allowing himself the nature he’s denied since his desires first assaulted his body, since he first spilled seed in his sleep, dreams wavering with the image of a body much like his own rather than the soft curves of a woman. And he’d dallied with some boys, during his training; he’d assumed it gotten out of his mind. 

But it’s not. Kurt is filling him, mind and--and Blaine blazes with the need for his body to fill as well. Fill with pleasure--perhaps with Kurt himself-- 

Is this allowed? He feels no divine retribution for his urges. No punishment, no shame. Kurt is leaning in, raising his free hand to cup Blaine’s jaw, turning his face and leaning up, tilting his head to offer his lips for claiming. 

His lips are like brands from the fire against Blaine’s mouth when they meet, blistering him deep within, hardening him against any doubt that this is what he was born to do, protecting the passion that simmers beneath. He surges into Kurt, laying him down on the warm ground, and lowers himself over this beautiful man, his angel, who deserves all the worship within Blaine that is now displaced, floating free and with naught to latch onto. 

“That’s it, brave knight,” Kurt whispers as Blaine sucks kisses into the side of his neck, feeling lifeblood pulsing within Kurt just as it does within himself. “Let yourself feel all that you wish.” 

Their hands roam, and Blaine has felt nothing like Kurt. He is fine-skinned and dusted with hair, blooms of it across his chest and stomach and down, down, disappearing beneath his kilt, and Blaine wants to remove it and trace a path to his cock, his legs, and beneath. His body is tight, and lithe, long and hard and welcoming and warm, touching Blaine in return as though he is blessed, sacred, precious, with a firm hand that never lets him fall. 

The firelight flickers, and Kurt turns Blaine onto his back, straddling over his hips and pressing down, his weight settling onto Blaine’s hardened cock, rocking gently as he stares down, caressing Blaine’s chest up beneath his shirt. 

“I--I am dreaming,” Blaine gasps, arching like a bow and taut as its bowstring beneath Kurt’s hands. “Or surely I perished when I fell from that hill, and I was somehow pious enough in life to deserve paradise.” 

“You are alive, Blaine,” Kurt says breathlessly, pushing one of Blaine’s hands to his own chest and pressing down over his heart. It thumps quickly against his ribs, and Kurt draws his other hand up to his chest--Kurt’s heart is beating just as rapidly, just as strongly. “I am as well, in my way. We are both here together--dead men cannot feel pleasure, nor dreams. I am feeling pleasure--are you?” 

Blaine throws his head back as Kurt circles his hips, moaning into the falling darkness. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes--” 

“Wait for me here,” Kurt instructs, and he bends over and kisses Blaine deeply, ensuring the continued rise of his need as Kurt stands and skips into the trees, out of sight. 

“Kurt?” Blaine calls, leaning up on his elbows, uncertain of being left alone. To busy himself, he puts more wood on the flagging fire, the heat and light a comfort as he listens to Kurt crunching through the brush, flitting in and out of sight for long minutes. 

He returns with an armful of large, thick flowers and leaves, and a small wooden bowl. Blaine’s brow furrows in his confusion. 

“Where did you--” 

“Shh,” Kurt says playfully. “I shall tell you in the morning. For now, leave me to my work.” 

He straddles Blaine again, setting aside his materials and stripping Blaine of his shirt. Blaine allows it with a laugh, following Kurt’s pressing hands down flat onto his back. Kurt then lays the bowl on his breastbone, and Blaine looks down at it. 

“What is it for?” 

“Are you perhaps an innocent?” Kurt asks simply, eyebrow raised in curiosity. He picks a thick leaf and breaks it open, allowing a thick oil to drip into the bowl before he discards the empty remains, picking up a flower this time, breaking its stem to the same effect. After he’s exhausted his supply, the bowl is about half full with swirls of oil, fragrant and slick as Kurt dips in a finger and blends them. 

“N-no, not entirely,” Blaine admits. “I’ve--I’ve been with...a boy or two.” 

“Have you ever been inside of one of them?” 

Blaine shakes his head. Kurt smiles down at him. 

“There are many pleasures to be had with another man,” Kurt says. “I’ve seen much. But I’ve remained chaste myself, for my worshipers did not believe themselves worthy of my embraces, and others were afraid of me. Are you afraid, Blaine? Are you worthy?” 

Blaine gasps as Kurt unwraps his kilt, leaving himself naked above Blaine, handsome and erect, hard all over his body but for his soft smile. 

“I am entirely unworthy,” Blaine groans. “But I fear I am not so honorable as to let that stop me if you are offering yourself to me.” 

Kurt leans down and kisses him, guiding his hands back over his supple behind, and Blaine happily digs his fingers into the firm flesh, rocking up into Kurt’s hardness over his own. 

Kurt’s tongue slides between Blaine’s lips, and Blaine strokes back, opening his mouth up to draw Kurt deeper. They bob and pull from each other, each time moving their lips wider and then drawing closer around their tongues, slipping between their mouths, their heads tilting opposite as they press together noses to knees, Kurt’s toes digging beneath Blaine’s thighs in his crouched position. 

As they continue to kiss, Kurt reaches back and pours oil down between his cheeks, over the edge of Blaine’s hands. Blaine, knowing enough to know what Kurt is asking for, spreads the oil down, fingers slipping low to brush over the tight clench of his hole. 

“Blaine,” he whines, rocking back into his touch. “I want you inside of me. Are you willing?” 

Blaine nods frantically, stroking more firmly at the hot, wrinkled dip beneath the pads of his fingers. Kurt spreads around him, just around the tip of his first finger as it focuses deeply on the center. 

“Yes,” Blaine babbles. “Yes, yes, anything, I’m yours--” 

Kurt smiles, and Blaine suddenly finds himself writhing out of the remainder of his clothes as Kurt pushes them down, leaving them at his knees and grasping Blaine with a wet hand, stroking once before he kneels up and holds Blaine firm to his opening. 

“I must--I must stretch you--” 

“Even were I not in better control of this body than you surely expect, I would never wish to deny myself the feeling of you breaching me fully, Blaine,” Kurt murmurs. “I assure you, I’m quite ready and willing.” 

He pushes down, and Blaine feels his muscles open around him, clenching back around his length as he slides in, squeezing him tight and hot in a way that a hand or a mouth could never, _has_ never achieved. 

He breathes hard in the cool night air, gasping for breath and control over his restless body as Kurt sinks to the hilt, the perfect sheath to his sword, perfectly fitted and keeping him tight within. Kurt is smoother than fine Eastern silk, hotter than breath caught in his helm, just as prone to sending an ache through his lungs as he fails to fill them fully. He feels like every poem, every love letter, given physical form and unleashed on Blaine’s unsuspecting heart. He’s opened like a blooming flower around Blaine, petals spread, pink and warmed with sunlight. 

But all thoughts of flowers and letters flee Blaine’s thoughts when Kurt circles his hips, drawing Blaine’s hands up his stomach, guiding his fingers to his chest and sides and over his graceful collar and shoulders. Blaine touches willingly, eyes wide with awe as Kurt moves over him, milking him of all the lust he’s excited within, building up his need with each smooth wave of his body. Blaine is the shore to Kurt’s overwhelming sea--the leaves flowing in his wind, the earth cracking beneath the fury of Kurt’s storm. 

“Kurt,” he gasps, and in that single word is more faith and more divine revelation than any sermon, than every utterance of _in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti._ Every cross from his brow to his heart, every reception of the Body and the Blood--nothing is sweeter balm to his soul than Kurt’s fingers tracing his chest for him, than Kurt’s Body and Kurt’s Blood hot around him. 

He doesn’t even intend it. His spirit simply acts for him, drawing his body and his heart and his mind along until Kurt consumes him like the baptizing firelight, dedicated to a whole new god in the spilling of his seed into Kurt, his offering--and Kurt accepts it with a wild cry, clenching around Blaine to wring him dry, returning his fidelity in kind as he allows Blaine to worship him with questing hands. 

Blaine knows now why heaven must be above. Looking up at Kurt from below, their eyes meeting as they catch their breath and touch each other down from the ascendency, Blaine thinks that it might be the perfect angle from which to view Kurt--gentle eyes, fond smile, body curving closer into his arms. Looking at Kurt from below, he might be seeing Kurt truly for the first time. 

If he isn’t looking at heaven now, then he’ll forever shun understanding of heaven. Its most beautiful glory could never be more so than this. 

“Thank you,” Kurt says sweetly, laying himself over Blaine fully, allowing their bodies to part in only one way and then replacing that connection with every bit of skin between them, starting at their feet, winding up twined legs, bone-close hips, sweating and beating chests, and ending with their lips, brushing in exploration and discovery, like a journey and an end in one cloying caress. 

“If you wish,” Kurt says at length, sliding down to rest his chin on Blaine’s sternum, drawing his fingers lightly over his chest, “there is a cache of items in a hollowed trunk in the wood. It’s not far in; that’s where I went before our...joining.” 

“A cache?” Blaine asks. 

“Mmm. Items left behind by my previous visitors. I’ve no use for them myself--but you may have your pick of its contents.” 

“Why did you keep those things if you didn’t need them?” 

Kurt smiles sadly and kisses Blaine’s chest once, chaste and soft. 

“I--I had hoped someone would return. I had hoped someone would stay.” 

Blaine brushes Kurt’s limp hair back from his brow, hardly daring to touch his cooling skin so as not to disrupt too much of his perfection. 

“I didn’t know gods could hope.” 

Kurt’s smile widens, and he presses his head into Blaine’s hand, taking the contact Blaine had been hesitant to give. He looks up at Blaine with warmth in his eyes, though the fire is behind him. 

“Gods do nothing _but_ hope, handsome knight. Why else would they create something that grows?” 

\-- 

When Blaine wakes, it’s to birdsong above, warmth around him, and Kurt beneath him. He’s curled into his side, head upon his shoulder, limbs tangled and pricking as though lying on needles. 

Kurt is looking down at him happily, and he nuzzles Blaine’s temple when he sees him awake. 

“I hope you’re well rested.” 

Blaine untangles himself and stretches. Kurt’s eyes remain on him, though they roam down from his face. 

“I am,” Blaine replies, feeling relaxed and healthy once his arms and legs quiet from their prickling. “And you?” 

“So long as I remain in my forest, I am incapable of tiring as you do,” Kurt replies. “Manifested as I am now, however, I am capable of sleep, and it is a pleasant sensation.” 

Blaine grins helplessly and looks upon Kurt lingeringly. The morning light is soft over his body, gilding him. Blaine would happily take up idolatry to pray before this. He already has. 

How easily his former life is slipping away. How easily he is honed beneath Kurt’s whetstone, sharp and slick in his favor. He could pierce a thousand hearts, cut down a thousand men. He sings with exquisite joy to be of Kurt’s use, to be his weapon and protector. 

He’ll need that cache of Kurt’s. His heart has settled firmly on remaining. 

“Would you like nourishment?” Kurt asks, before he can speak his mind. “There are several edible plants, and you have my permission to hunt.” 

Blaine is pleased Kurt doesn’t deny him meat. But it is true--hunting is a natural part of life. Predators hunt--lions and men alike. Kurt only asks that he emulate the lion--kills what he needs, and not for sport. 

“I--I would be better for breaking my fast,” Blaine admits, rising and dressing. “If you would tell me where to find some fruit, I’d like to speak with you while I eat.” 

“Of course,” Kurt says with a smile. He stands, remaining naked as he steps forward, straightening Blanie’s clothes and untangling Blaine’s curls with his fingers. “Head east, no more than five minutes’ walk, and you’ll find thickets with berries and a ripe pear tree.” 

Blaine thanks Kurt with a kiss, gathering up one of his greaves for a platter, returning not twenty minutes later with ample servings of plump berries, tart and sweet, and fleshy pears just fallen from their tree. Blaine’s slightly disappointed to find that Kurt is again clad in his flower-vine skirt, sitting comfortably among the roots of his tree, reclined with his legs long before him, crossed at the ankle. 

“Mmm, would you share your meal with me?” Kurt asks. Blaine laughs. 

“Of course. I wouldn’t dare deny you.” 

He sits beside Kurt, curling his legs beneath him, placing the makeshift platter on the bowl of his lap. He plucks and proffers a plump strawberry from among his selection to Kurt, who leans forward and eats it from his hand with a laugh. 

“What would you discuss with me?” Kurt asks, plopping a blueberry on his tongue after they’d playfully fed each other at least half of the fruit. 

Blaine pauses and takes a breath. There is uncertainty in what he has to offer, uncertainty in Kurt’s reaction, and in his own abilities. But all that he’s experienced over the past several days has led him to this moment for a reason, of that he has no more doubts. He must simply own his convictions and lay them bare. 

“You have offered me sanctuary,” he begins. “Yet you have asked nothing in return. However, I would offer you something in return, if you’ll have it.” 

“And what is that?” Kurt asks easily, no resistance in his voice. 

Blaine sets aside his platter and rises to one knee, bowing his head in supplication. He practiced this silently while gathering his breakfast--now comes the time to deliver it as best he can, though he is not the most confident of orators. 

“With your blessing, I pledge myself to your demesne. I will serve as its earthly protector, guarding its borders from those who would invade, and--and I will defend unto death your corporeal manifestations, both--both yourself and the tree from whence you came. I will do my utmost to maintain the natural balance of your...holdings, from this day until the day of my last breath.” 

He closes his eyes and waits for his lord’s acceptance. But all he feels is a gentle hand on his head. 

“Good knight,” Kurt says softly. “Do you know what this would truly mean for me? What service you are granting me?” 

“I--I accept all burden and responsibility I can shoulder on your behalf.” 

Kurt laughs, albeit kindly, and hooks a finger beneath Blaine’s chin to lift it up. His smile is wide and carefree when Blaine looks up. 

“Blaine, do you know how gods have power?” 

Blaine considers the question, but it is beyond his ability to answer. Anything he thinks to say sounds foolish, so he simply shakes his head. 

“Our power is strengthened by belief,” Kurt explains. “The more worshipers we have, the more sacrifice made in our names, the more prayer we receive, the more powerful we become. By pledging yourself to me, you are granting me the power of your faith. Even one soul can grant exquisite power to those of us with the kind of magic that makes mortals see us as gods. Do you understand what I say?” 

Blaine can hardly grasp it. There are a thousand questions that rise within him at Kurt’s words, but he is a servant only--if Kurt wishes him to see his divine wisdom, he will share it as he sees fit. 

“I--I believe I do,” he answers. “My grasp of such divine matters is...scant, at best. But I trust your word and can only hope that what you say is true--I would be honored to provide you with any strength I could.” 

Kurt pulls him in for a passionate kiss, embracing him warmly and quelling his breath with the sweetness of his mouth. It is only as Kurt draws back to press his forehead to Blaine’s cheek that it returns, filling his lungs once more with a broken gasp. 

“What fate brought you to me, I will never know,” Kurt whispers. “But this world’s movements are kind indeed.” 

Blaine hardly understands, for he has no knowledge of the ways the world moves. But he allows himself to feel what he can, and at Kurt’s words, at his gratefulness and his adoration, Blaine allows himself the joy to weep. 

\-- 

The months Blaine spends in Kurt’s service are the most peaceful he has ever known. Many times he finds himself pausing to absorb the feeling--the same one he had as a child, kneeling in a chapel, the echoes of the Gregorian Chants of the monks echoing off the walls of the monastery his father had brought him to, candlelight flickering on cold stone and wood and the smell of dusty parchment in the pages of the Bible. Blaine had trusted then so implicitly in God, and had felt his life would have purpose because He deemed it so, and his father had been proud of his acceptance of the Will. 

Now, there is a different Will. A different god. 

He spends his days in much the same way. He patrols the edges of the forest, sometimes walking with Kurt to set up boundary stones so that he doesn’t cross inadvertently. He hunts when he needs to, gathers fruits and vegetables and herbs. He has made good use of the cache Kurt had kept from his clearing’s previous inhabitants, and he’s even made himself a makeshift shelter--a small home, just a simple wooden hut made from what deadwood lay in the forest, and some well-placed stones and thatching. There is a single hearth in its center, and a straw mattress on the floor, and it is in this bed that Blaine sleeps beside Kurt. 

For Kurt rarely returns to his tree. He does tire, after a fashion, when he spends several days far from his oak. But a brief union with it, to nourish his spirit and tend to the order of nature, and then he returns to Blaine. They talk, and sing, and tell stories, and make love beneath the leaves or in Blaine’s bed or in the cool current of the stream whenever it pleases them. In the early mornings, Kurt tends a small garden outside of Blaine’s hut, learning from Blaine himself about agriculture as he knows it--which isn’t much, honestly, but enough to cultivate food for the two of them without relying on the wilderness. Naturally, Kurt excels at fostering the plants with his strange magics. 

Kurt makes him gifts, as well. He makes him crowns of flowers, carves a wooden bird, makes him succulent meals he experiments in cooking. At first it’s difficult to stomach the burnt meat and ill-used spices, but soon Kurt has a handle on it, and Blaine has never been so well-fed. 

He’s never been so happy. 

And then, one morning, Kurt snaps to attention where he sits beneath his tree, spine straight and sharp as the finest blade, his eyes casting out into the distance. 

“What is it?” Blaine asks, looking up from his work patching a hole in the foundation of his house. 

“There are--people,” Kurt says. “Cries for help from my trees and animals. Intruders.” 

Blaine immediately ducks into the house and gathers up his armor, well-kept and preserved and unneeded until now. As he straps on his greaves, Kurt ducks in. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m going to drive them away,” Blaine says simply. “I promised to protect this forest, Kurt. Protect you. I’m going to do so.” 

“Blaine,” Kurt says, his voice shaking. It’s enough to make Blaine look up from attempting to buckle on his breastplate. “Blaine, I will not hold you to that promise. I’d prefer you here, and safe.” 

Blaine looks down, and finishes buckling himself up before he turns to Kurt. 

“Your generosity is endless,” he says sincerely. “But it is I who will hold myself to that promise. Perhaps I made it selfishly, hoping to always have you with me. If that is so, let it be so--I won’t have you or your forest hurt when I can stop it.” 

“How will you stop it?” Kurt demands. 

“I will tell them it is sacred,” Blaine explains. “I needn’t tell them to which god. I will show them the boundary stones, and ask that they seek elsewhere for their wood and game. There is no reason for them to deny me.” 

“There are many reasons, brave knight,” Kurt says bitterly, looking down at Blaine. “There are few in this world so honorable as you, and it will get you killed.” 

Blaine’s heart sinks. Kurt--Kurt doesn’t have faith in him. 

But he can earn it. He hasn’t yet given everything. And Kurt would be worth that sacrifice, especially if he should return. Kurt could know the same peace he does as well. 

He will make it so. 

“I will return,” Blaine promises, taking Kurt’s hands. “There is nothing in this world that could keep me from you.” 

Kurt bites his lip, and tenses for a long moment before he pulls Blaine from the house and over to the tree. 

“Kneel with me,” Kurt commands, sinking down among the roots, and Blaine follows, facing him. Kurt holds their hands clenched between them. 

“No matter what, Blaine Anderson,” he says, his voice suddenly thrumming, powerful, “I will always find you. Be it this life or the next, or any from the reaches of time. I will _always_ find you. I swear it by every branch of this tree, every knot and root and leaf. You once pledged yourself to me--the time has come for me to pledge myself in return.” 

Blaine feels his hands start to shake, but Kurt holds them steady. 

“Do you accept my pledge, Blaine?” Kurt asks. “Will you wait for me?” 

Blaine holds fast. 

“I accept your pledge, but I will not wait,” Blaine says, kissing Kurt’s fingers where they clench around his own. “I will be seeking you as well. I will do all I can to help you find me, or to find you first.” 

Kurt pulls him in by the back of his neck and kisses him, still holding his hands in one of his own. And Blaine lets himself be taken, lets Kurt seep into him, lets himself open to what Kurt is offering. When they part, he looks down, and sees a faint light about their hands that quickly fades. 

“We are bound,” Kurt says. “I have left my mark on you--you are a part of me, Blaine. I will make sure to honor the responsibility that gives me. If you do not return--I will retrieve you myself.” 

Blaine feels no different--maybe he’s always been a part of Kurt, in a way. He surges in to kiss Kurt once more, and then he rises. From its place by his door, he takes up his sword, and at Kurt’s guiding, pointing hand, he heads off through the woods to protect his home. 

\-- 

Blaine wakes with a scorching pain on the back of his skull. Instantly, he hears his name. 

“Ah, Blaine. You’re still with us.” 

He opens his eyes and finds himself strapped to a table by his wrists and ankles. Instinctively, he struggles, but the straps are good leather and hold well. 

He looks up into the face of his captor--into the face of his former lord. Duke William. 

“Your Grace,” Blaine stammers, startled. “What--where am I?” 

“You should know,” Duke William says candidly. “You are at my outpost on the western reaches of my lands, perhaps an hour’s ride from the place in which we found you.” 

He stands beside the table and looks down at Blaine like a stern uncle about to scold a wayward child. 

“We found you in that God-forsaken wood we were using for supplies. You came blundering through the brush months after you went missing, and it’s only thanks to the quick actions of your former comrades that you are here and not dead by the hand of an unfamiliar knight. 

“Now, Blaine, you are of a good family,” William continues. “But no matter your lineage, traitors must be punished. I have yet to decide your sentence, and I doubt there is much you could say to convince me to be lenient. But as your lord, I suppose I owe you your piece. Speak; explain your actions.” 

“I am no traitor,” Blaine spits, and instantly he realizes that he has made a horrible misstep. Duke William sneers down at him, and Blaine forces himself to calm and relax back down before shaking his head. “My sincerest apologies, my lord. I have seen much, and it has been many months since I spoke to anyone.” 

“Why did you desert, Blaine? Why forsake your station as a knight and disgrace yourself?” 

“I--received a message from God,” Blaine says quickly. “When the battle was over, He called to me, and I followed.” 

William snorts, shaking his head. 

“Madness--” 

“I swear it to you, I received divine prophecy that day,” Blaine says. “God’s messenger bid me retreat from the battlefield and I followed His instructions on my faith as a Christian. He bade me seek solitude in that forest, to contemplate His teachings. I’ve not yet begun to scratch the surface--I’ve been there so short a time.” 

“Your duty as a Christian is to do as your lord says, Blaine,” William says, and perhaps he believes himself to be speaking kindly. “You abandoned your post and dismantled the oaths of fealty you swore.” 

“So be it,” Blaine says with conviction. “My first duty is to God. You would be the first to know that.” 

But it’s a lie. _My first duty is to Kurt._ And somehow, William seems to sense it. 

“Then you will face the consequences of your actions,” William sighs. “It is a shame--you would have made a decent knight, in time.” 

It is then that he walks to the head of the table, and Blaine looks up just enough to see the wheel. 

He is on the rack. 

“You will not sway me,” Blaine announces. He braces himself. He will endure anything for Kurt--no torture can break what they have, and the moment he finds an opportunity, he will return to the oak tree, even if he has to crawl the entire way. 

He takes a breath--the last he will take as a whole man, he is sure. 

_Kurt--find me._

“No--” 

Blaine’s eyes snap to the foot of the rack. He knows that voice well--and there he is. 

Kurt is here. 

“Kurt,” he gasps, struggling to free himself from his binds. But Kurt ignores him, lifting up an ancient-looking bow and firing an arrow. 

“ _Argh!!_ ” 

Kurt drops the weapon, darting to Blaine’s side. Halfway there, he _trips._

“Kurt?” Blaine asks, fear settling hard and cold in his stomach. 

“I’m here, Blaine,” Kurt says breathlessly, fumbling with the leather straps until Blaine’s arms are free. Blaine sits himself up and tugs Kurt into a tight embrace, breathing in his scent, face pressed into the old ragged hunting clothes from tribes long passed that Kurt has donned to leave the clearing. 

_He’s left the forest._

“I’m sorry, Kurt,” Blaine babbles. “I was taken prisoner, the men burning your trees were my comrades--” 

“Shh, no apologies,” Kurt says, pulling back and grimacing at William’s renewed shouts. He walks back and Blaine hears a hard _thump_ before Kurt is back, helping him to sit up and remove the binds from his ankles. “We have to leave this place, I have only just snuck past the men and his shouts will have drawn attention. Come--” 

It’s then that Blaine sees that Kurt is bleeding in several places. 

“Kurt--” 

“There is no time,” Kurt says. “Run.” 

Blaine takes Kurt’s hand, and tugs him from the room, holding tight as they run together through the post and out into the stables. 

“Come on,” Blaine says, heading right for the Duke’s gray courser, a magnificent beast kept in the finest condition. “We’ll ride--it’s the only way to escape quickly--” 

Kurt stands before the beast with a hand held out, and the horse nuzzles him gently. Kurt nods. 

“Do what you must and we’ll be off.” 

Blaine saddles her and then mounts, pulling Kurt up behind him, helping as he clambers awkwardly, so unlike the creature who moved with such grace when walking barefoot on the ground, slippery with red-stained clothes, paling quickly. 

“Come on,” Blaine says, putting Kurt in front of him before grasping the reins and spurring the horse out. 

He only pauses once before they leave the camp, stopping by a knight-lieutenant he’s familiar with. 

“Sir Blaine,” Sam calls in surprise as Blaine pulls up. “Who is this? Where have you been? I heard--” 

“Whatever you heard was a lie,” Blaine says quickly. He thinks for a long moment, and then throws caution to the wind. “Tell the men--spread it as wide as you can--you have to leave. This wood is cursed--witches and demons abound within. I’ve been charged with clearing it, but I must return and be left to my work. Duke William has already been driven mad by the effort and my tales. He would have killed me had my companion not come to my aid.” 

“Are you sure?” Sam asks. “Blaine, this sounds--” 

“I know,” Blaine says. “But for the sake of our friendship, do as I ask. Send word out to the other lords, ask for aid. Go from this place. I won’t return, so I trust you to carry this out.” 

Sam nods, holding out his hand. Blaine takes it, and then Sam nods to Kurt. 

“You should go and tend to your friend,” Sam says. “He looks on his last leg.” 

Blaine nods, and spurs on the horse again, racing as fast as he can back toward the wood. 

“Blaine,” Kurt whispers, and Blaine holds tight around him as Kurt’s head falls back on his shoulder. “I have to--” 

“Don’t speak,” Blaine soothes. “We’ll be there soon.” 

\-- 

The horse takes them right to the clearing with a few murmurs from Kurt just before he loses consciousness. Blaine holds on and keeps one hand over Kurt’s heart, praying with every moment that it continues to beat. 

When they finally reach his oak tree, Blaine slides to the ground and pulls Kurt down after him, struggling to bear up his weight until they’re beneath the tree. 

“Kurt,” he says, tapping Kurt’s face with his hand as gently as he can. “Kurt, awaken. We’re home. You’re home.” 

Kurt blinks awake and licks his lips, laughing sadly. 

“Blaine, this isn’t my h--” he breaks off, coughing. “This isn’t my home anymore.” 

Blaine holds Kurt close. 

“I--I thought if you returned--” 

Kurt shakes his head and cups Blaine’s cheek with a bloody hand. 

“No,” Kurt says. “I--I left to find you. I felt you fading and--and I followed the pull until the moment I crossed the boundaries and my connection to the oak tree severed. I’ve lost its magic. I’m--I’m human, just like you.” 

“No,” Blaine insists, shaking his head. “No, Kurt, you have to--you have to try, you have to be able to heal yourself. Your wounds are too severe for me to tend--” 

“Blaine.” 

Kurt smiles at him, tears spilling from his eyes. 

“I won’t be able to heal,” Kurt says. “I’m--I’m too weak. The men I encountered trying to save you--they fought well, and I’ve never had to fight a day in my long life. Not with your weapons. I was able to best them only with my speed, and that--” Another cough, weaker this time. “That wasn’t enough.” 

“Kurt, don’t go,” Blaine begs, sobbing. 

“I--I’ll stay--as long as--I can.” 

Kurt huddles into Blaine, and Blaine holds him close, and it’s as though he can feel the warmth draining from Kurt by the second. 

And so he looks up in final desperation. 

“You made me a promise,” Blaine says, demanding. “You promised me that you would always find me. And that was both of you--not just him, but you as well.” 

The tree doesn’t respond, but Blaine speaks anyway. 

“He has given everything to keep that promise. But what about you? You haven’t kept your end of the deal. You need to help him find me. It’s your magic that bound us. So do your part. Heal him.” 

Nothing. Not a rustle in the breeze--not a chirp of bird or crackle of twig. 

“Damn you!” Blaine shouts. “You were there--you were part of that promise. You can’t abandon us now. He was a part of you. You wouldn’t be here were it not for him! You would’ve been chopped down and burned as firewood without his use of your magic for protection. That’s how it works, right? You can live without him, but he never said you could _survive._ You don’t have his spirit anymore, but you still have a _soul._ Use it! Save him, please.” 

He hangs his head, and Kurt has gone still. 

“Please.” 

_Crriiick._

Blaine sniffs back his tears, and listens. 

_Crriiick. Snap._

He looks around, and about him, the roots of the tree are slowly tearing from the ground. Thick, long lengths of wood are winding up, tearing up the earth to circle them. 

Blaine sets Kurt down as gently as he can and retreats. This magic isn’t for him--whatever is going to happen. Even if that means he has to dig his way beneath the earth by hand to join Kurt’s body in its burial, he’ll do so. But Kurt deserves this ceremony, this final union with his beloved tree. 

It winds up, curling Kurt up and surrounding him until he’s completely surrounded by the twisting roots, a huge bauble rising up from a twisting pedestal. When it stills, Blaine hears breath, like the lungs of the earth herself have opened and inhaled, shaking the leaves and the forest around him in a sudden, swirling torrent. 

The tree comes alive. 

Its life shines golden as it builds, glowing brighter as it draws power from its outermost branches, taking the life of the forest into itself and coalescing in the orb that holds Kurt in its embrace, shining like a thousand suns kept inside its branches. And then, the exhale, a gust that knocks Blaine from his feet, blinds him, until as quickly as it came, it’s gone. 

Blaine scrambles to his feet, and his breath catches at the sight. 

The tree is-- _dying._ It’s as though winter has come, its branches bare of their leaves, the trunk hard and cold as though with frost, the moss and vines shriveled and brown. And on the twisted pedestal, the orb of roots has fallen open, and Kurt is lying still on the the flat spread of wood left behind, petrified in the shape it ended in. His clothes are gone--the blood, the injuries over his legs and arms and chest are gone. He’s whole and perfect as the day Blaine met him. 

Blaine approaches slowly, hands shaking, eyes burning. 

“Kurt?” he asks, reaching out a hand. 

A heartbeat. Strong and sure in Kurt’s chest. 

“Blaine.” 

Blaine looks up, and Kurt’s eyes are open, eyes Blaine had almost believed to never see again. 

“ _Kurt._ ” 

Blaine falls into Kurt’s arms, half-climbing onto the altar the tree has left, sobbing openly as Kurt kisses his brow and pets his hair. 

“Whatever you did,” Kurt says, and then trails off, holding Blaine tighter. 

“Your tree, Kurt--” Blaine croaks. “I--I’m so sorry, I think it’s--” 

“Sleeping,” Kurt finishes. “Do not apologize to me, beautiful, beloved knight. You’ve saved me.” 

Blaine allows himself to be guided into a kiss, warm and hard and _alive._

“Did I not promise I would find you?” Kurt asks laughingly, pulling Blaine to lie beside him, facing in and pressing close and bathing in the benediction of the tree’s blessing. 

“And I you,” Blaine reminds him, smiling as Kurt kisses him again, again, again. 

“Always,” Kurt promises. “Though I’m not much to believe in anymore, I hope--” 

“Kurt,” Blaine says. “I’ll always believe in you. You don’t have to be--a god, anymore. Human or divine, I’ll always believe in you.” 

Kurt pulls him in, and doesn’t let go. 

“I believe in _us_ , Blaine,” he whispers. “Always us.”


End file.
